PHEW! Oh, Phew! How the mighty have fallen.
The bombastic Size Two has been clobbered. In just a month he has been yanked off his high horse and tossed out of the party he started.
And Mokola is prodding on with vim, seemingly unperturbed by his former boss’ desperate screams. Absolutely nothing Size Two does will bother Mokola.
When the man from Tsoelike announced his plan to call a special conference Mokola laughed out loud and told him to organise it with his own camels.
When Size Two suspended him Mokola chuckled and told him to suspend his own goats. In short, Mokola doesn’t give a rat’s behind what Size Two says or does.
He is telling his ‘leader’ to go weep in Mohokare River and tell his troubles to Thabana-Ntlenyana mountain.
Mokola has come to the conclusion that Size Two is not immune to spanking after all.
In fact, he must be kicking himself for not having unleashed the sjambok years ago.
And Size Two is not helping himself by bellowing about the injustice he has suffered. Victimhood doesn’t go far as a political strategy when it’s the only card you have left to play.
He has been all over town touting people — who apparently can’t wait to see him thrown off the cliff — that he is being harassed by rebels whose commander is Mokola.
Last week he rushed to the High Court. Someone with inside information said tears were streaming down his cheeks as he wrote the affidavit.
If that is so then his tears and cheeks have never met under such humiliating circumstances. Muckraker is no legal fundi so she will give you pith and marrow of his court case in simple terms, devoid of the pretentious verbosity our lawyers use in their papers.
“Please tell the rebellious committee to give me the party letterhead and the stamp,” Size Two says.
“I want the court to confirm that I was right to suspend those rascals in the national executive committee,” he adds.
That pretty much sums up his plea to the court.
All of which is particularly sad if you don’t have a dog in this toxic fight to control the Doomed Congress (DC).
That Size Two, who has seen himself as a supreme leader of the party, should beg a court to force his juniors to let go of a letterhead and a stamp is a sure sign that he has been walloped.
What’s in a stamp and letterhead, anyway? If the leader of a country and party is rendered powerless because of a stamp and letterhead then God forbid.
After all, those are things even a first-year graphic design student can reproduce without breaking sweat. Make your own copies chief if the rebels have swallowed the letterhead and stamp.
Muckraker is offering to help out if Size Two has run out of ideas. For a baby camel Muckraker can reproduce the stamp and letterhead as good as the originals.
The other depressing part of his application is that he wants the court to confirm his decision to suspend Mokola and his battalion.
That too does not need a lawsuit. If those people are indeed rebels deserving of the boot then Size Two’s special conference will make it happen.
There is no need to waste the court’s time over such simple issues.
In any case it’s not as if the case is really urgent. There are serious murder, rape and fraud cases the court should be hearing.
There are people who urgently want to be granted divorce because they cannot stand being under one roof. There are thieves we need to lock up pronto.
So now is not the time to congest the court’s diary with political cases that can be sorted out by simple ingenuity.
But you will be a colossal fool to think this court case is motivated by a pursuit for justice.
The reality is that this is all part of a political morabaraba Size Two and Mokola are playing on each other.
It is as clear as a goat’s behind that Mokola has pulled a fast one on Size Two.
In his arrogance and confidence Size Two did not see the train coming. The warning signs have been there for months.
It was apparent that something nasty was brewing when little Litjobo, the motor mouth, started pelting Size Two with stones.
The youths, even doubly dippy politicians will tell you, are a mere extension of some people in the leadership. They are useful because they are impressionable, garrulous and reckless.
They are the stone throwers in the party. The sjamboks you can unleash on political opponents. For some reason Size Two did not see the train coming until he was under it.
Boom! The master of Sesotho riddles has been rammed.
Oh boom! The big man of congress politics has been tossed under a train, smashed flat on the railway line. Henceforth he limps.
As cunning as ever, Mokola keeps referring to Size Two as his leader but has not stopped adding huge logs of wood to the pyre he has set on his behind.
You can be sure that Mokola will keep pretending to respect Size Two until he is toast. And little Litjobo and cahoots are chuckling as they keep adding gallons of paraffin to the fire.
Some analysts, as predictable as Likuena’s mediocrity, have been claiming that Size Two is cornered. They are right but to say he is trapped is to minimise the magnitude of his problems.
A more apt way to put it is to say the Tsoelike man is in a strong bind and his head is spinning faster than the slot machines at Avani Lesotho.
So why did Mokola decide it was time to put on stilettos and clumber atop a writhing Size Two? Well, we can only speculate for we will never know what happened when the two men were buddies.
One possible theory is that Size Two changed his mind about handing power to Mokola. There were signs that at some point the leader was going to make way for his deputy.
Mokola has confirmed that in not so many words in a recent interview with a local newspaper that used to be published on Fridays but now comes out on Saturdays.
Muckraker suspects that Mokola grew weary of being told to be patient. Time and again he had been told that Size Two was merely warming the seat for him. He was told that he was being groomed.
But soon he came to realise that the leader had no intention of leaving the seat.
“Ntate, surely this seat you keep saying you are warming for me should be red hot by now,” he told the leader in one of their nocturnal meetings.
“Ah, it is I who will say when the seat is warm enough for you,” Size Two replied.
“Ntate, remember that I sit next to you so I can feel that the seat is warm enough,” Mokola retorted.
“Hey, calm down chief. I said it’s not warm enough. Now go run some errands for me before I get pissed and give the seat to that learned woman over there,” said Size Two as he waved him off.
With time Mokola would realise that he would never put his bottoms on the seat unless he steals it from the leader. He was becoming an apprentice who never qualifies. A student who never graduates.
A trainee who never gets to do the job. He has been in training for more than ten years.
Even if he was the dullest of students surely ten years of remedial lessons would have brought him at par with his leader.
But Size Two kept him waiting. Waiting for Godot.
Thus began the plotting at nightly meetings. This being a rumour mongering country it did not take long for news of his nefarious scheme to reach the leader’s ears.
They said he was meeting the national executive committee in dark alleys. They said he was hobnobbing with Uncle Tom.
They said he was getting ready to pull the stool off Size Two.
His response was to deceive the leader and shame the prattling masses with emphatic denials.
“The leader and I are one,” he said at one rally.
“Allegations that I am planning to elope with Uncle Tom are wretched lies,” he quipped.
“Those people in the Yellow Plant wanted to bury me alive when they were in power so there is no way I can be their bride”.
It helped that Mokola is a trained journalist. So time and again he fed our pathetic and nobble (not noble) journalists with blue lies.
And as usual the journalists gobbled his words, sprinted to their newsrooms and spewed them to the public. They called those half-truths scoops.
Even village bumpkins are wiser than journalists when it comes to sniffing out propaganda. While selling dummies to reporters Mokola was rebranding himself as a champion against corruption.
The finance minister is a thief of money, he alleged in reference to the sister’s shoddy handling of the Bidvest stinker.
What did the trick though was to insinuate that the whole government, including Size Two, is standing arms akimbo while state resources are being looted hand over fist.
Nothing angers a hungry man like being told that the people he elected are pinching government money. People hate those who trouser their monies.
While Mokola was smearing dirt on the coalition government Size Two was busy globetrotting and practising his Sesotho riddles.
He thought nothing was going to stick on him. But he did not know that Mokola had sprinkled some tar and glue in the mud. Soon the general impression was that the coalition government was overflowing with thieves.
It did not matter that this was a factoid (who cares about fact in this season of smearing). A few weeks ago Mokola made the final move by calling MaIsaiah.
“Look, I know you don’t like me much but I have a way to get your lease to the State House renewed,” he said.
“I am listening. It’s good you now admit that my lease was illegally cancelled,” MaIsaiah said. The rest is history.
Size Two is now being dragged out the doors at the Prime Minister’s office, kicking and screaming. And so we wait but not with batted breath for we know we have bought a ticket for another rollercoaster ride.
Yet there is a way to save the DC. Muckraker thought hard and long about the situation before coming up with a solution. The solution for the DC is to seek ‘divine’ intervention.
This week the party should hire buses to take its supporters to Limpopo to meet Pastor Lethebo Rabalago, a young man who claims to heal diseases and cast away demons using Doom pesticide.
For months Rabalago has been using Doom to ‘heal’ his desperate followers. The sick are being healed, the deaf are hearing and the blind seeing because of Doom, he has claimed even as some people say there is a short circuit in his head.
Muckraker does not believe in such tosh. In another time Muckraker would have called the pastor an unmitigated moron. An imbecile on the loose. A lunatic who has escaped the mad house.
But desperate situations call for desperate measures.
In this time of trouble Doom is the only thing that can stop the DC from being doomed.
You see, there is even a scientific explanation to the use of doom on the Doomed Congress. That party is teeming with insects that are gnawing it from within.
You know the havoc cockroaches wreck when they invade your house. The DC has a serious running tummy because it has it allowed flies to bring gems into its house.
Tiger Brands, the makers of Doom, say you should “wash thoroughly with soap and lukewarm water” if you come in direct contact with doom. Nonsense, says Muckraker. Doom is good for the DC.
If you have come into contact with the DC then you need several cans of Doom. If you need help to buy doom please send your request to email@example.com.
Machonisa on fire
It was only a matter of time before the so-called socialist party owned by a machonisa started unravelling. Now the capitalist owner of the Socialist Revolutionaries is lashing out at anyone who dares to tell him to behave himself.
Teboho Mojapela is moving around his party’s structures with a phafa, leaving his victims scratching their bums.
Muckraker has no sympathy for his victims. They deserve what they are getting.
Having deluded themselves to think that they are stockholders in the SR, they should now enjoy their harvest of thorns. They were guests at Mojapela’s house but tried to tell him how to arrange his furniture and what to eat.
He is telling them to go find somewhere to play because the SR is his personal property.
That the SR is in Mojapela’s armpits has always been clear. He formed and funded it.
It’s just that some were too naïve to realise the obvious.
Thabo Shao packed his bags and left after Mojapela whipped him out of his house. He now mumbles something about Mr Machonisa being a dictator. He says that as if it’s a discovery to be shared with the rest of the world.
Yet anyone with something between their ears would have known that a machonisa who brags about beating his naughty workers could not possibly be a democratic leader.
Only Shao and a few dimwits didn’t know that.
Anyway, Shao’s exit will not change much because he just doesn’t matter. He is a political nonentity who overrates himself.
What interests Muckraker is Mr Machonisa’s nerve to call Shao an uneducated rascal. That hurts because it’s an insult coming from someone who has made it a mission to give education a bad name. Mr Machonisa’s definition of someone educated is Tlohelang Aumane. Hear, hear, and hear. Phew!
Does anyone remember Aumane saying anything either educated or educative?
Muckraker only knows him as a political jezebel incapable of staying in one political bed for more than 15 minutes. He is always itching to be married to the next political party.
Muckraker is tempted to say Aumane is politically horny but she won’t say it for fear of offending the oversensitive souls. The kind that claims to have almost suffocated to death after someone farted in a hall.
But Mr Machonisa doesn’t care about Aumane’s habits because he thinks he is renting a brilliant political mind. A few things will happen in that union.
Mr Machonisa will soon realise that Aumane is just an empty-headed political slay queen always looking for the next partner to get him Ice Tropez (May lightning strike whoever drinks that but cannot afford it. Fire!)
Aumane will realise that Mr Machonisa is a moneyed but unrefined village bumpkin whose mouth has a terrible habit of rebelling against his brain.
Mr Machonisa will find the next brain to rent while Aumane will be putting on his stilettos to find another political lover to smooch on the Maseru streets.
The queen Mampara
Muckraker once promised to say nothing about the Feselady but that Mampara’s mouth keeps running as if it’s connected to Muela Hydro Power Station.
The Feselady told some ABC members who visited her home that she will not associate with the party until it distances itself from the remark of suspended spokesman Montoeli Masoetsa. What made her relapse to her Drama Queen ways was Masoetsa’s attack on her and her hubby. He said the ABC lost because of Uncle Tom and Feselady.
That simple truth, known to even donkeys in Qaqatu, pierced her cheeky heart and got her tummy roiling. She now says she will never wear the ABC’s regalia until the party apologises. Don’t laugh. If this was a threat, the Feselady has lost her touch.
She used to beat people for merely looking at her in a funny way or calling her hubby.
She would harass government officials in public. Now she has been reduced to threatening to avoid yellow dresses and T-shirts to fix the ABC. Boom! Boom! The mighty Drama Queen has fallen.
What remains is just the fading memories of power sexually transmitted.
The transmitter of that power has long ceased to function literally and figuratively.
But the Feselady is too engrossed with herself to realise that she has neither the power nor the capacity to make threats to anyone. She rules only her home, yard and a few idiots still clinging to her.
It takes some sophistication to read irony and the Feselady doesn’t have even a pinch of it. Her people in Mokhotlong rejected her when she tried to sneak into parliament via that hollow popularity garnered through matrimony.
ABC supporters think she is just an uncultured blabbermouth. That she thinks anyone would lose sleep over her threats to burn the party’s regalia or turn them into fatukus is comical. Her tantrums will not change a thing. Her boycott might be the best thing to happen to the party since the October 7 defeat.
Why would the few remaining ABC supporters worry about a garrulous charlatan boycotting their party?
The last time she was wearing the ABC like a wig, it lost more than 200 000 voters, flew to the opposition benches and became a smallanyana party. Nothing hurts more than that. So bring it on mummy!
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